


Shenanigans

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fanfiction, Fluff, Humor, Leprechauns, M/M, St. Patrick's Day, drunk!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's green.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

> So I discovered it was St Patrick's day (very recently) and somehow this happened. I have a touch of the Irish myself, two generations back. Unmitigated fluff, I'm afraid. *hides*

 

“Oh my freaking god!” Rodney yelled, the moment he’d hot-wired the door and burst in. It wasn’t like Sheppard to lock him out and be unobtainable for hours on end. He keyed his radio. “Carson, medical emergency in Colonel Sheppard’s room!”

“On my way in a jiffy, Rodney,” Carson responded briskly. “What is it? Has he been taken over by an alien entity again? Is it the old Iratus problem?”

“He’s green!” Rodney leaned in closer and sniffed. “And drunk as a . . . as a leprechaun.”

“A what? I must have misheard you laddie. Did you say he’s _green_?”

“As a goddamn four-leaf clover, yes. He appears to have covered himself with green dye and drunk several bottles of . . . what is this shit? . . . Guinness?”

Rodney had the finest mind in two galaxies, so it took no time for him to analyze the available facts and draw the correct conclusion.

“What’s the date, Carson?”

“What? The date?” Carson sounded breathless, doubtless running behind a gurney.

“Yes. What’s the date today? I know you keep your watch set to Earth time so you don’t miss any of your ridiculously large Celtic tribe’s birthdays.”

“Ah, it’s March 17th . . . Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Rodney snapped. “St. Patrick’s day.”

“So he’s just drunk?” Carson didn’t sound to be hurrying as much.

Rodney sighed. “Yes. Clearly the urge to celebrate his Irish ancestry for some reason overwhelmed him. Unless he has an allergic reaction to whatever he used to paint himself green, I think we can assume he’ll live.”

“Well I’m there now, so I’ll just make sure.”

The door chimed, and Rodney let Carson and the medical team in, wishing he hadn’t over-reacted. Sheppard would probably be pissed that they’d all seen him, green and snoring, pickled in Guinness. The nurses were hiding grins behind their hands and he scowled at them as Carson checked Sheppard.

“He’s had a rough week,” Rodney announced defensively to the room, as though that excused someone painting themselves green. Sheppard had never seemed to want to celebrate his Irish roots before, although he did have a liking for Guinness. He must have had a crate shipped in specially on the Daedalus.

“Aye, laddie, we know,” Carson said, straightening and patting Rodney’s arm. “That culling on Pardos took it out of everyone.” He looked down at Sheppard who snored on, blissfully unaware. “He doesn’t need the infirmary, but you should get him onto his side, anyway.”

“I’ll stick around,” Rodney said. “The last thing we need is him waking up rat-assed and blundering out where the marines can see him. They’re not used to having Kermit the Frog for their CO.” He glared at Carson and the nurses. “Breathe one word of this and you’ll be showering in cold water for a month.”

“Calm down, Dr. McKay,” Marie said, rolling her eyes. “We’re all bound by patient confidentiality, you know.”

“A likely story,” muttered Rodney. “The infirmary’s the worst hotbed of gossip in the whole city.”

“I think we’ll be off now, before you insult my staff further, Rodney,” Carson said, giving him a warning look. “You might bear in mind that you tend to need our services on a regular basis. You don’t want irritated nurses removing arrows from your arse, now do you?”

“Out, out!” Rodney shooed them away before the interchange degenerated any further, and re-locked the door. He pushed Sheppard over into the recovery position, which at least reduced the volume of his snores, got water and Tylenol from the bathroom and set them nearby, then settled onto the bed with his laptop.

Some hours later, Sheppard groaned and made a hacking sound like a cat with a furball.

“Don’t throw up in the bed!” Rodney snapped, as Sheppard pulled himself up to sit, eyes half closed even though Rodney had the lights down low.

“Bleh, ergh,” Sheppard said, and shuddered. Rodney pressed the glass of water on him and he drank a little, so Rodney gave him the Tylenol and badgered him into drinking most of the water.

“Whassa time?” Sheppard mumbled, falling back on the pillows.

“Three a.m. What possessed you to paint yourself green?”

“ ’m a lepra. A lepper. Lep’rshn.” Sheppard said, with a smeared grin. He began to sing in a croaky baritone. “ _’n oirish eyes’r smilin’, wellits–”_

“Oh dear god, you’re still pissed as a–”

“As a lep’rshn,” Sheppard said, grinning drunkenly. “C’mon Rodney, you allus say’m a nelf, right?  ’s the ears! Lep’rshn ears.”

“Very probably,” Rodney said. “And in the morning you’re going to have a nice leprechaun hangover to boot.”

Sheppard wriggled onto his side and curled up beside him, face pushed into Rodney’s armpit and one hairy (green) arm thrown around his middle, smearing dye on Rodney’s blue uniform shirt. “Be OK,” Sheppard murmured sleepily. “Gotta pot o’ gold.”

“Oh really?” Rodney said, unable to resist the big idiot, drunk or sober. He carded a hand through Sheppard’s messy hair. At least he hadn’t tried to dye that, thank goodness. “And where’s this so-called pot of gold, huh?”

Sheppard squeezed his midriff. “Right here, dumbass,” he mumbled, and began to snore.

“Well,” Rodney said softly, a lump in his throat. “Well, then, OK.” And when he stroked Sheppard’s stupid face he found he didn’t care that his hand was bright green.

 

\- the end -

 


End file.
